The sandy-haired warrior, holding his helm under his arm, stepped up to the table, waving to the crowd.
One by one the names were called. Kail felt a second wave of relief that he was not among them. Falco was called. Kail glanced across the field and saw a tall man stride forward. He moved well. Then came the shout: 'And his opponent, Bane of the Rigante.' A mighty roar went up from the Keltoi section of the crowd. Bane waved to them, then walked across to the table.
Then Vorkas was summoned. Kail felt a ripple of fear as he saw the man. Vorkas was impressive, broad-shouldered and well over six feet tall.
Lastly came Rage. Once again the crowd cheered, but Rage did not acknowledge them. He moved to the table, to stand opposite Vorkas, then each of the warriors raised their goblets, offering a toast to their opponents.
Kail turned away, and trudged back into the Armour Tent.
For Bane the ritual at the Field was baffling almost beyond belief. Enemies were people who sought your death. They were not men you drank a toast to, or shook hands with. He looked at the man opposite him. Falco was lithe and lean, the bones of his face flat, his mouth a thin, tight line. The eyes were light blue, and no fear showed in them. He met Bane's gaze, and seemed about to speak. Then the gladiators around him raised their goblets. 'To valour!' they shouted. Applause rippled from the crowd. Bane tasted the wine. It was sour upon the tongue.
Bane glanced to his right, and saw the mightily muscled Vorkas lean forward. 'By the Stone, you look old and tired,' he told Rage. 'I shall take no joy in killing you. It will be like killing my grandfather.' Rage smiled and said nothing. He sipped his wine, then placed his goblet back on the table. 'And I can see the fear in your eyes,' continued Vorkas.
The toast over, the gladiators moved away from the table. Bane walked alongside Rage. 'You should have broken his face,' he said.
'Why?'
'He insulted you.'
'He was trying to intimidate me. Tell me, what did you notice about your opponent?'
Bane thought about the question. 'He had blue eyes,' he said.
'He was left-handed,' snapped Rage. 'Now let's get out of this armour and go home. There is work to do.'
'I thought we were supposed to walk among the crowds, and let people see us.'
'They have seen us,' said Rage. 'And we have no time for this foolishness.'
An hour later, back at the farmhouse, Rage, carrying two wooden short swords, led Bane out into the training area. Tossing one weapon to Bane he took up a fighting position, feet well apart.
They had practised in this way for some days now, and Bane had learned many secrets. The first was - as Rage explained some days before - that all gladiators have their own rhythms and mannerisms. The longer a fight went on the more of these would be revealed to the man with a keen eye. 'Some men', Rage said, 'will narrow their eyes just before they attack, others will drop a shoulder or lick their lips. These actions are unconscious, but if you read them they will give you a heartbeat's advantage. All the best gladiators take a little time at the start of a bout to learn their opponent's moves.'
'You didn't,' said Bane. 'Octorus told me they beat a drum when you fought, and bet on how many beats it would be before your man died.'
Rage shook his head. 'I used to go to the other circuses and sit in the crowd. I watched future opponents, then I went home and wrote down what I had observed.'
'Have you seen Vorkas before?' Bane had asked.
'No - but I know how he will fight.'
'How?'
'He will seek to extend the bout, wearing me down - a nick here, a cut there. But he won't let it last too long. He won't want people to think he had to struggle against an old man, but he will milk the moment.'
'You don't sound too concerned.'
'I am concerned - but about you, boy. Have you not understood yet why, when we practise, not one of your lunges ever gets through?'
Bane smiled. 'I thought it was because you were too fast and too skilful for me.'
'It is your left hand that gives you away. The fingers flick open just before you lunge.'
'I will work on that.'
'Best to be aware of it, but to let it happen naturally. Falco will begin to read it. Then - at some point in the bout - clench your left fist, hold it closed, then attack. That one moment of misdirection could win it for you.'
Day after day they had worked, and Bane had improved rapidly.
Now Rage stood before him yet again - but this time he was holding the wooden sword in his left hand. 'Attack me,' said the older man. Bane had - or so he believed - begun to read Rage's moves. Moving in suddenly he lunged at Rage's chest. Instead of parrying the blade Rage swayed to his left, and his wooden sword smacked against Bane's right ear. He tumbled forward, righted himself then swung back to face Rage.
'There is no point in adopting a fighting pose, Bane,' said Rage softly. 'You are dead. Left-handers are pure poison. They have a great advantage in that most people they fight are right-handed, so they get used to such combat. Whereas their opponents are forced to rethink all their attacking moves.'
'How do I fight him?' asked Bane, rubbing his ear.
'Generally you would attack a left-hander to his right, circling away from his sword arm. But I do not know this man's style. Attack me again.'
For another hour the two men practised. Several times Bane managed to get behind Rage's defence, and once touched the wooden blade to Rage's throat. 'That was good,' said Rage, 'but do not get too cocky. I am not a left-hander. Let us take a break, and then we'll work on a little strategy I've used twice against lefters.'
Inside the farmhouse Rage lit a fire, and the two men ate a light meal of toasted bread and cold beef, washed down with water.
'Are you worried about tomorrow?' asked Bane.
'No. You?'
'No.'
Rage smiled, which was a rare sight. 'Then we are a pair of fools. Have you placed a wager?' Bane shook his head. 'Then you should. You've been given good odds. Four to one.'
'Odds?'
'Do the Rigante not gamble?'
'Aye, we gamble.'
'But not for coin?'
'No. Not in my settlement.'
'I see,' said Rage. 'Well, here we gamble incessantly. The odds merely reflect your perceived chances of success. Four to one means that if you wager one gold coin on yourself, and you win, you'll get four back, plus your original stake. In other words you'll start with one gold coin, and end up with five.'
'What are your odds?' asked Bane.
'Ten to one.'
'Which means that you are considered to have a one in ten chance of surviving?'
'Yes. Vorkas is young and strong.'
'He is also arrogant - and I didn't like him,' said Bane.
'I was arrogant once - so I am a little more forgiving. Now let us get back to work.'
They trained for another hour, then the snow began to fall once more. Bane was tired, but he was grateful to the older warrior for the time spent. As they were finishing their exercises two riders came down the hill. Telors and Polon dismounted, led their horses into the stable, then strolled out to where Bane and Rage waited.
'You missed some great fun,' said the black-bearded Telors. 'The elephant broke loose of its chains and ran into the crowd. It was last seen heading over the hills, being chased by a dozen Palantes slaves.'
'Anyone hurt?' asked Rage.
'No-one dead,' put in Polon, with a wide grin. 'You should have seen the crowd scatter.'
'You are in a good mood,' said Rage to Polon.
'Aye, I am. The man I am to fight has frightened eyes. So I've spent the morning wondering how to spend my gold. Telors and I are going into Garshon's place tonight. Find a couple of whores. You want to come?'
'No,' said Rage.
'It will relax you,' said Telors.
'I am relaxed, my friends. And I'll feel more relaxed when I'm in my bed and sleeping like a babe.'
They stood in silence for a mome
nt, then Telors stepped forward and held out his hand. 'Well, once more we spit in his eye,' he said softly.
'Once more,' agreed Rage, gripping his hand. Polon also shook hands, then both men returned to their horses and rode from the farm. Rage watched them go.
'Spit in whose eye?' asked Bane.
'Death,' said Rage.
Bane sat quietly in the windowless Sword Room below the stadium, two lanterns flickering on the wall. Through the doorway he could see the body of Polon. Blood no longer oozed from the gaping wounds in his chest and throat, but it still dripped from the table on which he lay, each drop making a small plopping sound as it struck the pool of dark liquid on the floor below. Polon's head had lolled to the left, and no-one had closed his dead eyes.
His bout had lasted for some time, and the men then in the Sword Room, Bane, Rage and Telors, had all begun to think Polon might be the first to prove victorious for Circus Orises. Four Crises men had been killed already, their bodies dragged from the arena, carried through the Sword Room, and laid out of sight.
Then the door known as the Gladiators' Gate had opened, and sunlight poured into the darkness. Two men entered, carrying Polon's body, laying it on the table in the room beyond. Telors rose, and put on his iron helm. His chest was bare, but a coarse linen bandage had been wrapped around his belly to prevent his guts being spilled to the sand. Rage rose alongside him. The old gladiator said nothing, and the two men shook hands. Then Telors walked out into the light. The two slaves followed him, pulling shut the door, and plunging the room back into gloom.
Another figure entered the room from the rear. It was the surgeon, Landis, a stout, balding man, round-shouldered and bull-necked. He sat quietly, his canvas tool bag beside him.
First came the sound of trumpets, then the roar of the crowd filled the room, and the occasional clash of metal upon metal filtered through to the waiting men. Bane found the situation bizarre. He had fought before. Indeed he had killed before. But always there was passion. Here, in the semi-darkness, there was an unnatural calm, as he sat with the dead. He glanced at Rage, who was now tying his red scarf into place. The big gladiator moved to the far side of the room and began to stretch.
Bane took a deep breath and closed his eyes. There was a huge roar from the crowd, then silence. He became aware that the blood had stopped dripping from the table on which they had laid the dead Polon. Bane rose, put on his burnished helm, and stood quietly. His heart was beating fast, and he felt suddenly breathless.
The door opened, and Telors walked in, removing his helm and hurling it at the far wall. It clanged like a bell as it rolled to the floor. Blood was flowing from several wounds in Telors's upper arms, and there was a cut just above his left knee. The surgeon rose as Telors entered, and beckoned him through to the back room. Telors strode after him.
Bane drew his short sword. He walked towards the door. Rage's voice stopped him. 'Stay focused. Put the crowd from your mind and concentrate on your opponent. Do not use the strategy too quickly.'
Bane's mouth was dry. The door opened and he walked into the sunlight. The noise of the crowd was thunderous. Eleven thousand people were crammed into the stands. Bane halted, and scanned the crowd. He had never seen so many people in one place, and for a moment he was awed by the multitude. The Gath had come in their thousands to watch a Rigante fight a warrior from Stone. Bane drew in a deep breath. The sky above was clear and blue, and there was no breeze. Bane started to walk once more towards the elevated section containing Persis Albitane and his guests. The Gladiators' Gate at the eastern end of the arena opened and Falco stepped out. Bane did not look at him, but kept his eyes on the small group of men in the Owner's Enclosure.
Persis was sitting alongside a thin man in a purple robe, and ranged about them were their guests, the rulers of Goriasa. There were several men in full armour, and Bane took these to be the officers of the garrison. The magistrate, Hulius, was there, and several children were clustered by the front rail. Bane found their presence to be distasteful. Children should not watch while men fought and died.
Putting such thoughts from his mind he approached the Enclosure, and waited for Falco to join him.
Then the two men raised their swords in salute to the guests, and Bane spoke the words Rage had taught him. 'Those who are about to die salute you!' He turned to Falco and offered his hand. The man from Palantes shook it. Then they turned away, walked back to the centre of the arena and waited. Persis rose and signalled the trumpeters. Three notes pealed out.
The crowd erupted. Falco attacked. For a single heartbeat Bane did not react, then he parried wildly, spinning away from the ferocious onslaught. Their blades met, again and again. As Rage had predicted, fighting a left-hander was more than difficult, and Bane felt clumsy and uncoordinated.
Screening out the baying of the crowd he focused on his opponent. Falco moved well, always in balance. He was fast, and confident, and
Bane was hard pressed to hold him at bay. A part of his mind was filled with gratitude for the training Rage had put him through, for, without it, he would have been dead in moments.
They fought furiously for some while. Neither drew blood in the opening exchanges, as they sought to read each other's moves. Rage had told Bane, over and over again, that a duel was like a dance. It had its own rhythms. Falco dropped his right shoulder and lunged. Bane parried. Falco's right foot lashed out, hooking behind Bane's heel and tripping him. Bane hit the ground hard. Falco rushed in. Bane rolled, his opponent's gladius striking the sand. Bane scrambled to his feet. Blocking another thrust Bane's fist lashed out, striking Falco full in the face and hurling him back. Bane charged - and almost died. Falco, recovering quickly, stabbed out. Bane swayed to his right, slashing his own sword swiftly downwards. The blade clanged against Falco's bronze wrist guard. Falco threw a punch into Bane's belly, and the two men backed away from each other and began to circle.
Bane leapt in, sending a vicious cut towards Falco's throat. Falco swayed away, his gladius licking out and cutting the top of Bane's shoulder. Blood sprayed from the wound, and once more the crowd erupted.
'The beginning of the end,' said Falco. 'I have played with you long enough, savage.'
The Stone gladiator now attacked with renewed frenzy, his sword-work dazzling. Bane stayed cool, blocking every attack, waiting for his moment. Falco's right shoulder dropped. Bane brought his hands together, transferring his gladius to his left. Falco lunged. Bane parried it with his wrist guard. In that fraction of a heartbeat Falco registered the move that would kill him. His eyes widened in terror. The gladius now in Bane's left hand plunged into Falco's unprotected belly, and up through his heart. Falco sagged against his killer. Bane pushed him away, dragging his gladius clear.
Even as Falco hit the sand slaves came running to remove the body and clear away the blood.
Bane raised his bloody sword in the air, and drank in the roars from the mainly Gath crowd. They were delirious with joy. Bane stood for some moments, elation surging through him. Then he cleaned his sword on the sand. The wound on his shoulder was shallow, and Bane had no desire to return to the gloom of the Sword Room. He strode across the arena, the sound of applause in his ears, and climbed to the stands. Men surrounded him, clapping him on the back. Then he turned to see Rage walking across the sand.
All elation drained away from him. He had known the man only a short while, but had come to regard him highly. Now he felt a sense of sick dread. He had not thanked him, nor said good-bye. Nor even wished him good luck.
Rage moved across the arena, his sword sheathed, his helm tucked under his arm, his red scarf bright as blood in the sunlight. From the other side of the arena came Vorkas. Bane stood, hands gripping the front rail, and watched as the two men came together before Persis and his guests. They saluted and drew back.
Rage donned his helm and took up his position. Vorkas faced him. The trumpets sounded.
A heartbeat later Vorkas lay dead upon the sand.
Rage
sheathed his sword and walked back to the Sword Room.
The crowd was silent. They stared at the fallen Vorkas, saw the blood pumping from his throat. Bane stood in shock. Even he had not seen the death blow. He replayed the move in his mind. Vorkas had lunged high, Rage had parried. Then the shock of realization struck Bane. Rage had killed Vorkas before the parry. As Vorkas's sword lanced forward Rage had stepped in and slashed through his opponent's throat, the blade continuing its sweep to block the lunge. It was a desperately dangerous manoeuvre.
Some of the Stone citizens in the crowd began to shout their displeasure at the lack of spectacle. Others merely sat, trying to make sense of what they had seen. Bane vaulted down to the arena and ran across the sand. Inside the Sword Room, Rage was removing his wrist guards.
'You were magnificent,' said Bane.
Rage said nothing. Unbuckling his sword belt he dropped it alongside his wrist guards and greaves. Then he loosened his leather kilt and threw it to a nearby seat. 'Are you all right?' asked Bane.
Rage turned to him, his face tight with suppressed emotion. 'Five of my friends are dead, boy.'
'But you are not,' said Bane softly.
'No, I am not.'
'You had that move planned from the beginning, didn't you? You said to yourself that Vorkas would want to extend the fight. He would not open with a lethal attack. So you risked everything on that one strategy.'
'Risk is what we are paid for, Bane. Did you use the switch from right to left?'
'Aye, I did. He saw it too late.'
'Get that cut on your shoulder seen to. Don't let Landis clean it. The blood flow will have done that.'
Telors came into the room, his wounds stitched. The black-bearded warrior gave a weary smile. 'Good to see you alive, my friend,' he told Rage, and the two men gripped hands once more. 'Did you wager on yourself?' asked Rage.
'No,' Telors told him. 'I thought my man looked too good.' He sighed. 'And he was - but he didn't have the heart. If I'd had his talent I would have been Gladiator One.' Telors slumped down to a nearby bench seat, and glanced through the doorway at the dead Polon. 'He knew he was going to die. I could see it in his eyes last night,' he said. The surgeon, Landis, entered, saw the shallow wound on Bane's shoulder, and called him through to the back room. He did not speak, but sat Bane down, and took up a crescent-shaped needle and thread. Swiftly and expertly he stitched the cut. Then, as he snipped the last thread, he looked into Bane's eyes. 'Well, lad, this is what you have chosen. Are you pleased with yourself?' 'I am alive,' said Bane.